By Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D. in El Cajon, California
This week’s Torah portion, Ki Teitzei, literally means “when you go out.” I find that opening phrase especially meaningful because it suggests movement. We don’t stay inside. We don’t retreat from life. We go out into it. And when we do, the Torah gives us an important challenge: pay attention to how we live, how we treat others, what we do with our choices, and perhaps most importantly, what we choose not to ignore.
Ki Teitzei contains more mitzvot than any other parsha—74 according to the Rambam. At first glance, that can seem like a very long list of rules. But I think there is something much more meaningful underneath all those commandments. The Torah isn’t simply telling us what Hashem wants us to do. It is showing us how our choices shape the people we become. Every mitzvah is an opportunity to practice becoming more compassionate, responsible, thoughtful, disciplined and caring. In that sense, the Torah isn’t merely a book of obligations. It is a guide for living better.
The Ramban, Nachmanides, sees the opening discussion of war as pointing toward another kind of battle, the battle within ourselves. We all know something about that battle. We have impulses we wish we didn’t have, habits that don’t serve us, thoughts that pull us in unhealthy directions, and moments when doing what is right is simply harder than doing what is easy.
The yetzer hara isn’t some distant enemy. Sometimes it sounds remarkably familiar. It tells us, “Don’t bother.” “It’s not your problem.” “You have every right to be angry.” “Someone else should take care of it.” Through the lens of psychology, I hear an important truth here: we don’t have to act on every thought, feeling or impulse we experience. A thought is not a command. A feeling is not a fact. And an urge does not have to become an action. The struggle to live according to our values, rather than simply according to our impulses, is part of what makes us human.
That’s why I find the mitzvot in Ki Teitzei so psychologically interesting. They give us repeated opportunities to practice the kind of person we want to become. Consider hashavat aveidah, the mitzvah of returning something that someone has lost. Obviously, it means returning a lost object to its rightful owner. But the idea can go much deeper. What if what someone has lost isn’t a wallet or a possession? What if they have lost hope, confidence, dignity, connection or a sense that they matter?
How often do we have an opportunity to help someone recover something they thought was gone forever? A conversation can restore hope. An apology can restore trust. A phone call can restore connection. Listening carefully can remind someone that they are not invisible. The Chofetz Chaim extends the idea of returning what is lost into the spiritual realm, and I think that is a beautiful way to understand the mitzvah. We aren’t simply returning things. We are helping restore what has been diminished or lost.
Then there is the remarkable mitzvah of sending away the mother bird before taking her young. The Talmud connects this mitzvah with cultivating compassion, and Rav Kook emphasizes the importance of bringing intellect and emotion together. Think about what the Torah is asking of us. Before we act, pause long enough to notice the experience of another living creature. That is emotional intelligence at its most basic level.
We don’t become compassionate simply by deciding that compassion is a good idea. We develop compassion by practicing it. We learn to slow down, notice, consider, and care. And imagine what might happen in our marriages, our families, our workplaces and our communities if we became just a little more practiced at asking, “What might the other person be experiencing right now?”
Then Ki Teitzei gives us one of its most powerful instructions: Lo tuchal l’hitaleim, “You must not remain indifferent.” You cannot hide yourself. You cannot simply look away. That command feels remarkably relevant to the world we are living in today. We see people struggling, people feeling isolated, people being treated unfairly, people losing hope, and it is incredibly easy to convince ourselves that it isn’t our problem. We can scroll past suffering. We can become overwhelmed by the enormity of the world’s problems and decide that there is nothing we can do. But the Torah doesn’t give us that escape. It tells us not to remain indifferent. If you see someone who needs a kind word, don’t ignore it. If you know someone who is disconnected or alone, reach out. If you encounter injustice, don’t pretend you didn’t see it. We may not be able to solve everything, but we can always do something.
And there is another important lesson here. Our choices don’t only affect other people; they affect us. When we repeatedly choose compassion, compassion becomes easier. When we practice courage, we become more courageous. When we choose to reach out instead of withdrawing, connection becomes more natural. The opposite is also true. Repeatedly looking away can make indifference easier. Avoiding difficult conversations can make avoidance our habit. Giving in to resentment can make resentment part of our identity.
he Torah understood something about human development that psychology continues to explore: what we repeatedly do helps shape who we become. The mitzvot are opportunities to practice the person we want to be, opportunities to train ourselves for the better.
This is why I don’t see the 74 mitzvot of Ki Teitzei as 74 burdens. I see them as 74 opportunities. Opportunities to become more thoughtful, more compassionate, more responsible, more courageous and more connected. The Torah isn’t asking us to become perfect. It is asking us to keep becoming better. Every day gives us another chance to make a different choice, respond differently, repair something, reach toward someone, or overcome an impulse that might otherwise take us in the wrong direction.
Near the end of the parsha, we are told to remember Amalek, who attacked the Israelites when they were weary and vulnerable. I hear another psychological lesson in that image. Isn’t that often when our own destructive thinking becomes most persuasive? When we’re exhausted, discouraged, lonely or overwhelmed, self-doubt can become remarkably convincing. “You’re not good enough.” “Why bother?” “Nothing will change.” “You can’t do this.” We don’t have to believe every thought that enters our minds. We can notice the thought, question it, and decide what we want to do next. That, too, is part of the internal battle the Torah is describing.
As we move through Elul toward Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, Ki Teitzei offers us a wonderful way to think about personal renewal. Teshuva isn’t simply about feeling badly about the past. It is about returning, restoring and changing direction. Perhaps we can begin by asking ourselves some very simple questions: What have I been ignoring? Where have I become indifferent? What relationship needs attention? What part of myself have I neglected? Whose hope might I be able to help restore? What thought keeps getting in my way? And what is one small thing I can do differently?
Ki Teitzei reminds us that a meaningful life is built through these seemingly small decisions. We don’t have to fix the world in one grand gesture. We can make a difference through one act of compassion after another, one conversation after another, one courageous choice after another. The Torah asks us to go out into the world, not to hide from it, and not to remain indifferent to the people and circumstances we encounter. There is enough suffering, division, loneliness and intolerance in our world. We don’t need to add to it by looking away.
So perhaps the most important message of Ki Teitzei is also one of the simplest: when you go out, be awake to life. Notice what is happening around you. Notice what is happening within you. Restore what you can. Challenge the thoughts that pull you down. Reach toward people rather than away from them. And when you see someone who needs you, don’t look away.
Because every time we choose compassion over indifference, courage over avoidance, connection over isolation, and purpose over cynicism, we aren’t just making the world a little better. We are becoming a little better ourselves. And maybe that is one of the Torah’s greatest gifts: it doesn’t merely tell us how to believe. It teaches us how to live.
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Michael R. Mantell, Ph.D. prepares a weekly D’var Torah for Young Israel of San Diego, where he and his family are members. They are also active members of Congregation Adat Yeshurun.